In the haziness between coming down from drunk and making his way toward sober,
when things are still glittery and vague but a rational thought sneaks its way
in, Brian muses about how things could be Different.

He has to do it when he’s still drunk or high or stoned or tripping because
Brian Kinney just doesn’t muse, and if he does he certainly doesn’t
regret the things he’s said or decisions he’s made. But when his
brain is overrun by a controlled substance, it’s much easier to pass it
off as the liquor or drugs talking. Brian doesn’t say I love you, or even
anything resembling I love you, and he likes it just fine that way, fuck you
very much.

Sometimes, though … sometimes Brian muses. Mostly when he’s tired.
Scenarios flicker before him and his brain takes them out of context, down avenues
of Maybe and What Could Have Happened and If Only.

He plays out certain scenarios more than others. The Rage party is a prominent
one in the Brian Memory Bank.

Babylon is dark; a sea of Rage masks making it sexual and anonymous, and Brian
watches Justin as the stage models mime the bashing. Justin’s brow furrows,
a small wrinkle appearing between his eyes, and when he looks at the ground
or the ceiling or his watch or the drink in his hand, Brian sees, and curses
himself for picking that scene when there were a thousand others to choose from.
It’s easy for Brian to make cruel, casual statements – the “victim
of a love-bashing” one was on a level Brian doesn’t want to think
about any more – but he isn’t quite sure why any other kind of affirmation
gets stuck in his throat.

Justin mutters something about friends and telling people things and a bunch
of other shit Brian already knows, and Brian gets annoyed all over again. “Don’t
piss on your achievement,” he snaps, and goes to get blown.

When he’s done fucking the actor who played Rage, he emerges back out
onto the dance floor and finds Justin surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on
who all want a piece, literally and figuratively. Justin looks slightly overwhelmed
and Brian shoves his way into the middle, flipping off the assholes that dare
to protest. He takes Justin by the arm and yanks him to a relatively quiet corner
near the bar.

Justin looks up at him, his bangs in his eyes and glitter on his cheeks, and
Brian knows that he needs to say it now and principles be fucked and rules be
damned because Justin is his and he needs to keep it that way.

“I’m proud of you. For Rage. And, uh. Being a big boy.” The
sarcasm is second nature, he doesn’t even hear himself say it but Justin
narrows in on it immediately.

The look on Justin’s face is not describable in any way except Brian
thinks he sort of … melts. His eyes show the change first, shifting from
suspicious and hard to clear and guileless, and Brian thinks if Justin starts
to laugh, he’ll shoot him.

To his credit, he doesn’t laugh. A corner of his mouth tugs up and he
blushes prettily, threading his fingers through Brian’s and bringing Brian’s
hand to his mouth. He kisses a knuckle and rubs it along his cheek, leaving
a trail of glitter stuck in the small hairs on the back of Brian’s hand.
“Um. Wanna dance?” he asks hesitantly. “’Rage?’”

“How about we find somewhere for me to fuck you instead?” And now
he’s found his footing again, back on solid ground, and Justin smirks.

“Fuck me later. Dance with me now.”

So Brian does, and when the violin player makes his appearance, Justin goes
and stands with him quietly in the corner and whispers in his ear. The violin
player – Brian won’t say his name, even in his head – nods
twice. Justin puts a hand on his shoulder and is shrugged off, and Brian smiles.

It could have been that way, he muses, looking at a sleeping Justin beside
him. Brian watches him breathe.

* * *

He takes a shot or three of Beam and thinks about the time at the ballet.

Brian takes Justin to the theater, because whatthefuck, it’s Christmas
and the ABT is doing the Nutcracker, and despite the implications of the painful
name, Brian sort of likes it. That, and a client gave him two tickets.

Justin successfully manages to amuse Brian through most of the evening with
his eagerness. “It’s so beautiful, Brian, so light and airy and
it’s like drawing. They’re drawing with their movements, do you
see? Can you see it?”

Brian remembers laughing at him and then ignoring the flash of Justin’s
wounded expression in favor of cupping Justin’s crotch through his tuxedo
pants. “I can see something, all right.”

“God, Brian, you’re like Joey Tribbiani. You can make anything
sound dirty.” He sounds vaguely disapproving.

The drive home is in companionable silence; Justin slouches in the front seat,
contemplating the roof of the car with a dreamy expression on his face. He breaks
the quiet when they’re almost to the loft.

“That was cool,” he says softly to the ceiling of the car. “Really
cool. Thanks, Brian. I loved it.”

Brian pulls into his parking space and glances at Justin out of the corner
of his eye. This is the spot when Brian’s thoughts take that path less
traveled, thank you Robert Frost, and instead of remembering how he actually
said “thank me with some fantastic head tonight” and then went upstairs,
this is the spot where Brian’s memories sort of depart from what really
happened, and he starts musing on what could have happened. The Beam is sneaky
that way.

Brian’s musing continues to the bedroom, where of course Justin is on
his grateful knees the whole fucking night.

* * *

He comes close in actuality, one time.

Justin draws Brian a lot, and doesn’t care whether Brian is posing or
eating or showering or reading the fucking Gazette. He draws him when the urge
strikes, and sometimes Justin will show it to Brian and sometimes he won’t.
Brian never asks to see the sketches.

Brian is stretched out on the couch, half-watching CSI: Miami and wondering
why they don’t film in South Beach where the people are prettier, when
he hears the familiar scritching of the pencil on paper. He lets the soothing
sound fill his ears, not consciously realizing that there was a time he thought
he might never hear it again.

Brian studies it carefully. Justin has drawn him with a sleepy expression,
one hand curled under his chin, the light from the tv throwing a faint glow
over his chest. Sometimes Justin will ignore the clothes Brian is actually wearing
and draw him in some different outfit completely if he doesn’t think it
goes with the picture’s “mood”, whatever that means, but not
here. Brian observes his plain white tank top and black track pants.

“You couldn’t have spruced me up a little? Drawn me in that new
blue Armani?”

Justin grins. “It wouldn’t have gone with the title.”

Brian glances at the corner of the page.

Whore at Rest.

“You little …” he jumps up unexpectedly and makes a grab
for Justin, who shrieks like a girl and throws his pencil at Brian before tearing
through the loft. He is laughing hysterically when Brian tackles him in the
bedroom, saying “Please, don’t, I’m sorry, don’t tickle,
Brian, please!”

So Brian of course tickles, finding the spot between his ribs that makes Justin
screech and hit at him and try to squirm away, but when Brian replaces his fingers
with his tongue on Justin’s bare chest, his squeals turn into soft breaths
and little groans that make Brian hard as steel.

It’s these times, when the sex moves past something a little more than
fucking, a little deeper than blowjobs in the back room, that Brian thinks it’s
the right time to say something other than “harder, faster, tighter.”
When Justin is warm and alive beneath him, watching him with heavy lidded eyes
and a sheen of sweat on his forehead, Brian wants to lean his head down and
whisper in Justin’s ear the things he thinks about in the dark.

He almost does. He pushes into Justin, closing his eyes to feel the warmth
and tightness, hearing Justin’s answering hiss of breath between his teeth.
Starts to stroke, thinks the words in his head with each thrust, wonders if
the sky will fall or the mountains crumble if he actually says it.

Brian decides they probably will. He shouldn’t risk it.

Instead, he kisses Justin in the same way he’s fucking him, using his
tongue to stroke, pull back, delve deep, until Justin is gasping for breath
and clutching Brian’s hips to pull him in, spreading his legs as wide
as he can and straining to rub his cock against Brian’s stomach.

“Say it,” Brian demands, his train of thought taking him somewhere
totally irrational, figuring if Justin says it enough it will mean the same
thing for both of them.

Brian hangs his head, puts his mouth next to Justin’s ear, whispers low
and dirty and smooth until Justin arches his neck and comes.

The fact that Justin doesn’t get up and walk out sort of amazes Brian
every time.

* * *

One night Brian comes home drunk from Woody’s after fucking two tricks
who bore a startling resemblance to the twink in his kitchen. The similarity
would have gone unnoticed except for Emmett’s astute observation of it.
It puts him in a foul mood, compounded by the alcohol.

He finds Justin stoned and giggling. “Brian!” he says, all bright
eyes and mussed hair. “Where’s the raisins? I’m making rum
cake.”

“Rum cake.”

“Deb gave me a recipe. It’s got cinnamon and raisins and stuff.
And rum.” This starts Justin on a laughing fit that lasts for two minutes.

“It’s two a.m.” Brian’s eyes are gritty.

“Old man,” Justin teases, and produces the raisins with a triumphant
“Ha! Fuckin’ raisins. Thought they could evade me with their little
raisin ways.” This, of course, produces more giggly laughing. Justin has
to lean two hands on the counter.

“No self-respecting faggot makes cakes,” Brian spits, ignoring
the total lack of logic in his statement, and goes to take two aspirin.

He tries to pick a fight when he comes out of the bathroom.

“What’d you do tonight? Play house?”

“Nope,” Justin replies, popping the ‘p’. “Worked
for Deb. Brought home the bacon.” He shakes his ass in Brian’s direction.
“See? Bacon.” This, of course, is more amusing than the raisins,
so Brian has to wait till the giggles subside.

The pot is slowing Justin’s thought processes, and Brian watches him
blink twice and try very hard to focus. “Make you say it,” he repeats,
his eyes darting from Brian’s shirtfront to Brian’s face. “Um?”

“Tell me to say ‘I love you’,” Brian hisses in the
dark kitchen.

“Why?” Suspicious and wary now, Justin tries to inch away.

“Because you want to hear it. Because it’s the right thing. Because
that’s what keeps you going, isn’t it, Sunshine? The thought that
someday I’ll say those words and the music will swell and flower petals
will drop from the ceiling and happily ever after will finally be here.”
Brian narrows his eyes at Justin and tries to will him to make him say it.

“You’re drunk,” Justin accuses, abandoning his cake and backing
out of the kitchen.

“Honest,” Brian corrects. “It’s called honesty, Mr.
Justin Taylor, and everyone should try it on for size.”

“Fuck you!” Justin screams suddenly, shattering the two a.m. quiet.
“Fuck you, Brian, don’t act like loving you is such a character
flaw! Don’t make me feel like I’m less of a person for saying those
words to you! Just fuck you!”

He flees to the bathroom and slams the door, tantrum complete.

Brian looks at the wall for a long time.

* * *

He strips naked and climbs in between whisper-soft sheets. Brian watches the
bathroom door until the alcohol catches up with him and he drowses.

He comes fully awake when Justin slides in behind him. “Bastard,”
Justin murmurs against his shoulder, and Brian nods.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah.” And he sort of laughs at
himself because it’s so true, and Justin starts laughing a little bit
too.

And that’s why, Brian thinks, that he’ll always muse over how things
could be a little Different, because even when he’s an asshole to end
all assholes and Justin queens out and screams and slams doors and they bitch
and fight and hate each other before they make up, they will always end up here.

Here, where Justin is warm and lean against his back, and is placing soft kisses
along his spine. Here is where Brian sometimes tries to say what Justin wants
him to, because Brian wants there to be just one fucking time that he doesn’t
have to look back on and wonder how it could have been Different.

One time.

But he stays quiet even now, while opening his mouth to whisper Justin’s
name, even while Justin tears the wrapper and puts the condom on him and rolls
over willingly. Brian rubs his cheek over the smooth expanse of Justin’s
back.

Even now.

Justin fists his hands in the bedsheets and presses his forehead into the pillow,
arches like a cat when Brian lubes him and then spreads his legs as far as he
can for Brian to push inside. He could say it, Brian thinks, he could lean down
and nuzzle Justin’s hair aside and tell him.

But then Justin is bumping back against him, wriggling around in a frantic
effort to get Brian's cock to brush his prostate, and the white seething flash
of pleasure is too desperate for Brian’s attention. In a blind move, he
slides a hand under Justin and fists his cock, stroking him firmly and reveling
in the whimper he hears in return. Thrust and drive, reaching for release, Brian
strains.

Justin grabs Brian’s hand and speeds him up, gasping and panting, the
other hand tangled in the sheets. Two more strokes and Justin comes with a grunt,
his ass clenching around Brian, making the sheath around Brian’s cock
even tighter. It’s done, Brian’s too much of a sucker for Justin’s
soft moans, and he squeezes Justin’s hips and comes, hard and with heat
and it doesn’t stop.

* * *

He slides out and cleans up, rolling Justin over to mop his mess too. Justin
is limp and pliant and agreeable, the joint he smoked earlier still leaving
lingering effects. Brian straddles his hips, splaying hands over his lean stomach.

“Love you,” Justin says guilelessly, and Brian is sharp enough
to recognize his own envy at the ease with which Justin says it.